


The Ghostess with the Mostess

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, ghost - Freeform, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-15 05:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12314880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: Sansa is on her first assignment, and while that comes with a very specific objective it doesn’t mean she can’t be useful in other, more practical ways.  And heaven knows Jon needs all the help he can get.Happy birthday paperflowercrowns!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bex_xo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bex_xo/gifts).



> So a few months ago I was trying to help SnowWhiteKnight name a ghost story and one of the ideas I tossed out was Ghostess with the Mostess. Now some of you may recognize that as a play on a line from Beetlejuice. And others of you may remember Mike Wazowski’s advice that “once you name it, you start getting attached to it.” Long story short (too late)- I got attached to it, and the more I thought on how a story with this title would go the more I knew it had to be Jonsa. And as luck would have it, one of my most favorite people in the world loves Jonsa AND is born in October! How about that?!
> 
> Happy birthday to paperflowercrowns! Hope you enjoy this silly fluffy fic!
> 
> And Happy Halloween to everyone else!
> 
> =====================

The family moved as one, the father reaching back for the hand of his youngest while the eldest ran ahead, chased by his mother down the street and towards the park.  Sansa had no idea if they were actually a family, but since they were of assorted sizes and seemed to care about each other, she labeled them as such.  

The clouds were thin today, aside from the one she was on, and perfect conditions for her to people-watch, chin propped up on her hands and one bare foot waving behind her in lazy little circles.  It was her favorite thing to do- lie in the clouds and watch the people below and dream and wish and remember.  Most days she was left to it; most days everyone left her alone.  But not today. 

“I have an assignment for you, Sansa.”

“An assignment?” she mumbled, barely registering the word, but the meaning hit her all at once and she sat up quickly.  “So soon?”  

The Elder Brother cocked his head, a reproachful grimace twisting his lips.  “It’s been fifty years.”

“But I’m not ready!”

“You’re as ready as you’re going to get… unfortunately.”

The last part was uttered under his breath, not quite for her ears though she heard it well enough anyway.

_ “Unfortunately?” _ she echoed, offended.  “What does  _ that  _ mean?”

“Sansa… you know as well as I do that you’re far too courteous for this job.” 

“Oh, so I can’t be nice to people just because I’m dead?”

“No, actually, you cannot,” he shook his head, making his halo wobble comically though Sansa was too panicked to laugh.  “The assignment is an easy one, I promise- young man, semi-sheltered, courteous, like you.  Just rearrange a few items when he’s not around, make noises, you know the drill.  Whatever you have to do to get the job done and you’ll be back here before you know it.  And Sansa….” 

“Hmmm?”

“You don’t  _ have  _ to be nice to him.  It might be easier for you if you don’t.”

She nodded.  “Okay.”

=======

She’d never been on assignment before though she was well aware of what the job entailed.  Or at least, she  _ used  _ to be well aware.  Now she was left to search her memory for all the necessary details, to remember what it was like to be an unbeliever and decide exactly how to best proceed.  

And so she’d planned on starting with something vaguely creepy, something subtle but undeniable, just enough to get his attention.  

“Ooooooooooo…” she moaned as she faded into the room then involuntarily wrinkled her nose.  “…. _ ew.” _

It  _ smelled  _ in there, like feet and cheese and mold, and everywhere she looked was a dark, dank mess.  Cobwebs clung to the ceiling fan over her head, dirty socks lay in a pile by the front door, mummified meals cluttered the coffee table… and was that  _ underwear  _ hanging from a doorknob?

“Dear me…” she gasped, clutching her pearls.

The kitchen wasn’t much better with its grimy countertops and near-empty fridge and sink filled with a ridiculous amount of dishes.  She couldn’t even see a dishrag or a towel anywhere, and it looked like no one had swept in… ever.  

“Why would he choose to keep his home this way?” she wondered aloud, incredulous, though she knew it was probably because he just didn’t know better.  

Oh, but it was  _ such  _ a nice apartment, with big wide dusty windows overlooking a park and a modern kitchen that could be gleaming with a little elbow grease.  It was a shame to see all that potential go to waste.

Instinct had her collecting dirty clothes, using tongs to move the underwear from the doorknob to the washing machine then rummaging around for some cleaning rags after she got some laundry started.  Rotten food got scraped into the bin, dishes got washed and put away, trash got taken down the hall to the chute.  Linens were stripped from the bed, washed, dried, ironed, and returned, while the pillows were fluffed up to make them more comfortable and presentable.    

As luck would have it, he  _ did  _ own a broom and she spent the better part of an hour removing cobwebs and sweeping up crumbs.  The vacuum she found was dusty- no real surprise there- so she had to completely clean it before she finally got to use it but at least it worked well.

When she was at last satisfied with what she’d done she took a moment to examine all she’d accomplished, feeling a little happy, a little proud… and a lot embarrassed.  What had started as a simple sprucing-up had evolved into a whole lot more.  The Elder Brother would disapprove, probably, would tell her she was being too nice to this man who was young, semi-sheltered, and courteous, like her.  That’s what he’d said- that the man was like her- and for the first time Sansa wondered what exactly that might mean.   

She didn’t have to wonder for too long, though, because the scrape of a key in the lock meant her ‘assignment’ had arrived.  If she had any sense at all she would have left before he came home, wouldn’t have lingered unseen by the door and watched him.  No, she  _ shouldn’t  _ have done that.  But she did anyway.  

He looked to be about her age, though that alone wasn’t much of a surprise, and he was dressed in black slacks and a white shirt that desperately needed to be ironed, a slackened red tie hanging around his neck.  And he was handsome- she wasn’t sure how to feel about that- with lots of dark curly hair and bright grey eyes that widened as he scanned his surroundings.

He noticed- every little thing she’d done that day, he noticed every one.  Not that she didn’t expect him to notice, of course, but it was the  _ way  _ he noticed that had her belly churning, how he slid a finger across the coffee table then walked from room to room to see what had changed, a confused half-smile on his face as if he didn’t really understand what he was seeing but liked it anyway.  

Well- as long as  _ he  _ liked it and  _ she  _ liked it there was really no reason to stop, was there?  

The following day had her doing much of the same, this time pulling dishes out of the cabinets and silverware out of the drawers and wiping absolutely everything down with the meager amount of 409 she found under the sink.  It wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, she told herself.  She was just bored with a capital B and since she couldn’t very well haunt him while he was at work, she figured she may as well make herself useful.  Move things around and make some noises, that’s what the Elder Brother had said, and that’s what she was doing.  If she happened to also dust those things when she moved them around, then what of it?  If she happened to refold all the shirts in his bureau just because there was nothing else to do, then what of it?

And if she happened to think the man was especially adorable when he was confused then… what of it?

=======

“I think my apartment is haunted.”

Heads snapped in his direction.  Sam was so startled he dropped his fork, almost knocking a glass over while he scrabbled for the errant silverware and glanced over at the others.  All of them sported looks that no doubt meant they thought he’d gone insane.  Not that he could blame them.  He had said it half in jest, knowing just how crazy it sounded and trying to be flippant about it, but the truth was something very strange had been happening in his apartment lately. 

“Why would you think that?” Pyp asked slowly.

“Uh... things are always in different places than where I left them?”

“Annoying,” Sam said.    

“Yeah.  Except, you know… it’s not really that annoying.”  

Confusing, yes.  Annoying?  Well… the truth was everything suddenly seemed  _ better  _ than it used to, every passing day marked with some unnamable improvement.  It wasn’t just about the shirts that seemed crisper than usual, or the kitchen tidier than usual, or the closets neater than he remembered them being.  It was about a shift in the air around him, a hum that couldn’t be explained, and instead of a prickle of cold one might expect from a haunting he only felt this sort of glowy buzz.  Like everything was just a little bit warmer.  Happier.     

“You should see if you can get a discount on the rent,” Grenn suggested; Pyp punched him in the arm.

“Yeah, maybe,” Jon agreed, not really agreeing.  “I guess I’ll just see what happens.”

=======

Day by day Sansa made herself at… well not ‘at home’  _ per se _ , but… almost.  She was on assignment, after all, and so far she had done exactly as instructed; and yes she had also washed a bunch of musty-smelling linens but she was only trying to be helpful.

Though after a while it was less about being helpful and more about the man who lived there, and the way he’d blink at every new discovery then peer around like he was trying to figure something out, not scared or even really confused, just sort of pleasantly surprised. Impressed. Who could blame her for wanting to see more of that expression, more of that soft smile he wore like he was grateful for the things she’d done?  She was  _ still doing _ what the job required, so why would it matter if she did just a little extra?

Then again, part of the assignment was to ‘get his attention’ and while she had definitely done enough things for him to notice he always seemed to just shrug them off.  She couldn’t very well say she was doing her job if he still wasn’t entirely aware of her presence.  Maybe it was time to do something... a little bigger.  

=======

Jon stood under the steamy stream of water and peered around his shower.  It seemed… a bit  _ tidier  _ than usual, the body wash and shampoo neatly arranged in a corner and lacking any of the scuzziness he’d grown accustomed to.  Huh.  He must have... wiped everything down without remembering?  It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he would do but the only other thing he could think of made even less sense.  So it must have been him.  It  _ must  _ have.

He’d already decided on that unlikely explanation when he wrapped a surprisingly clean-smelling towel around his waist and stepped over to the mirror to brush his teeth, but instead of his own face he was met with the sight of a girl.  

“Boo!”   

“AAAAAHHHHHCHCCCKKKC!!!” 

Jon had seen some serious shit in his short life- things that could terrify even the most hardened man- but the sudden and unexpected appearance of some woman in his bathroom scared him out of his ever-loving mind. Fortunately, though, that stranger started to laugh at him, an amused chuckle that immediately tempered his fear.  

“Did I scare you?”  

“Um…” he swallowed hard, forcing his stomach back down out of his throat.  “Yes?”

“Good.  I wasn’t sure if I should take a subtle approach or to go for the full scare or something in between, but I practiced for hours so I’m glad to hear it worked for you.  Oh, listen to me babbling and I haven’t even introduced myself!  Hi, I’m Sansa, and I’ll be haunting you.”

“Uh… nice to meet you, I think.  I’m Jon.”

“Jon,” she nodded her approval.  “I’ll be around for a while, Jon, just so you know.  I’m on assignment.”

“Okay,” he said, because what else  _ could  _ he say.  “Um… I need to get my toothpaste…”

“Of course,” the girl smiled and the medicine cabinet popped open, untouched.  

Jon quickly retrieved the toothpaste before anything weird could happen- or rather, anything weird _ er _ \- but when he closed the door the only thing in the mirror was his own confused and pale face.

By the time he was done brushing and shaving and dressing he’d almost convinced himself that he had dreamt it, that his tired brain had created a reason for the myriad improvements happening around him and he was most certainly not being haunted by a ghost.  He almost believed it, too… until he walked into the kitchen. 

It was like something from a magazine- one steaming cup of coffee, two perfectly fried eggs with buttered toast, a napkin folded and tucked under gleaming silverware- and for a moment he just stood blinking at the spread.   

_ I’ve gone crazy. _

Maybe.  Definitely.  But then the chair moved itself like it was inviting him to sit, and an invisible hand seemed to guide him towards the table.  And he should have been scared, probably, but instead he took a seat, casting a glance around him as he snapped out the napkin to smooth it over his lap, wondering where she’d gone off to.  

“Um… thanks for breakfast?” he said out loud, feeling foolish because he was very much alone.

“You’re welcome!” a voice chimed merrily.  Not so alone.

“You know, this would be a lot less weird if I could see you right now.”

It was several long moments before he received any kind of response- a muffled  _ *poof* _ that subtly shifted the air in the room- and off to his right the girl materialized as easily as flipping a switch.  

“Is that better?” she asked shyly.

He nodded.  “Yeah.”

Except no, it was worse.  Because having her in front of him instead of lurking in his bathroom mirror made her so much more real, and having her more real was… confusing.

The girl- the  _ ghost-  _ was the very definition of old-fashioned in her perfectly pressed long skirt and prim little sweater, a string of pearls around her neck and a touch of red on her lips.  That made sense, he supposed.  What  _ didn’t  _ make sense was how unbelievably pretty she was, a vision of porcelain skin and blue eyes and shiny auburn hair that fell in waves past her shoulders.  For some reason he had thought she would look sort of old, a little grey around the edges, but there she was as bright and crisp and beautiful as any woman he’d ever seen, and having her now in front of him made him inexplicably nervous.  

Maybe it made her nervous, too, if their awkward silence was any indication.  It seemed like  _ ages  _ before he finally remembered what it was he was supposed to be doing, grabbing his fork and poking at the eggs and inelegantly shoveling food into his mouth, and  _ still  _ she just stood there watching him.  

“Sansa, is it?” he asked through a mouthful of toast; her bright smile at hearing her name hit him harder than he would have liked.  “Are you just going to stand there?”

Irritation flashed in those insanely blue eyes.  “You  _ asked  _ me to…”  

“No, I know, just…  do you eat?”

“I  _ can,”  _ she admitted, anger subsiding.  “But there’s no real need to.”

And after another long moment of watching him chew she finally got the hint and turned away, moved to the sink to grab a rag and start cleaning up.  It made no sense whatsoever.  There was a ghost.  In his kitchen.  Cleaning up the dishes from a breakfast she’d made him.  This was not something that ever got mentioned in any of the ghost stories from his childhood.

“Is this a normal part of a haunting?”

“What?”

“The cleaning and the cooking?”

Her back stiffened.

“Ah… no, it’s not,” she mumbled, running her dish rag quickly over the countertop.  “You just never eat breakfast and it’s the most important meal of the day.”

She seemed embarrassed by what she was telling him, though what she could be embarrassed about was beyond him.  If either one of them should be feeling any shame at all it should be  _ him, _ the grown-ass man who lived there and still needed some girl- some  _ ghost-  _ to take care of the things he’d been neglecting.   

“Well, you don’t  _ have  _ to do that.”

The wiping slowed to a stop for just a moment then she smiled at him over her shoulder, a soft curve of lips that made his stomach flip.

“Believe it or not... I kinda like it.”


	2. Chapter 2

He got used to it a lot faster than he would have thought.  Sometimes he forgot she was even there though other times- more and more frequent times- he couldn’t deny her presence.  It beggared belief that she could exist around him without him seeing her though the truth was he could almost always feel her.  Almost.

It was a rare evening that he had so much free time and he mashed a few buttons on the TV, the receiver, the PS4, intent on playing a little Madden 2013 before settling in for the night, but his playlist had barely started when he was unexpectedly interrupted.

“What is he _saying?”_ a voice called from nowhere.

“Um…” he stalled, subtly catching his breath and praying she didn’t notice how he’d _jumped_.  “‘Two trailer park girls go round the outside.’”

“What does that _mean?”_

“No idea.  Do you think you could come somewhere I can see you?”

Another long moment of relative silence as if she was considering his request, and Jon started to think maybe she would deny him this.  But then the air moved with an almost-familiar _*poof*_ and she was in front of him, giving him a shy smile then blinking innocently over at the speakers while Marshall droned on and on and on:

 _♫  So, come on and dip, bum on your lips  ♫  
_ _♫  Fuck that! Cum on your lips and some on your tits  ♫_

“Let’s listen to something else,” he squeaked awkwardly, lunging towards the stereo to punch it into silence before things could get any worse though Sansa seemed supremely unbothered by the lyrics.

“He talks too fast.”

“It’s rap.”

“And it sounds like he has a terrible cold.”

“Yeah,” he laughed.  “It kinda does.”

When he was done switching everything back off again he turned to examine her, standing a little awkwardly in her dark blue dress and wide white collar, white stockings and tiny little Minnie Mouse shoes, wavy hair pushed back with a simple headband… definitely old-fashioned.  

“So, where… I mean _when_ are you from?”

“I died in 1967,” she said softly, shoulders dropping.  “If that’s what you’re asking.”

“How old were you?”

She swallowed hard before answering.  “Twenty-two.”  

His questions seemed to unnerve her, almost as if she was slipping into the memory of it, standing there with her head bowed and hands clasped before her like a pretty, melancholy doll.  Maybe she wasn’t supposed to talk about it; or maybe she just didn’t want to.  In any case, he knew he couldn’t let her dwell on it.

“Okay, so... the Sixties.  That’s like The Beatles?  The Beach Boys?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, relief lighting up her face.  “Do you have any of their records?”

“Not exactly.”

More like not at all, seeing as how everything he had was of the more modern variety.  And if he was being perfectly honest with himself he’d admit that a large amount of the music he owned was not intended for her (very obviously innocent) ears.  So he opened YouTube and fired up the first song he could think of, filling his living room with the familiar strains of _‘Sloop John B’_ and watching her press both hands over her heart like she was recognizing an old friend.  

Time flew- or stopped, he wasn’t sure- and the Beach Boys segued into Herman’s Hermits, then Dusty Springfield, then the Hollies, song after song with her singing along, never missing a beat or a lyric.  And after a while she started dancing, showing him the Freddie, the Frug, the Swim, the Bristol Stomp, all the dances she used to do, back in the day.  

“What kinds of dances are popular now?” she asked brightly, landing on the sofa next to him with surprising grace.

“Um… we don’t really have dances?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, confused.  “Nothing at all?”

He wasn’t the kind of guy who danced, not really, and even if he was he couldn’t think of anything comparable to what she was used to.  But watching her expression fall like that made him feel personally responsible for disappointing her, and he found himself scrambling about for something- anything- that could bring that light back to her eyes.  

“Well, let’s see, uh… there’s the Dab.”

“The Dab?” she echoed; smiled.  “That sounds fun.  How does it go?”

Jon raised one arm and dropped his head into the crook of the other, showing her the pose that had recently become so popular.

“That… is that it?” she asked, wheels turning behind her eyes like she was trying _really hard_ to think of something nice to say.

“Yeah, actually…  Oh!  We also have the Whip and the Nae Nae.”  

“Okay,” she drawled, uncertain.  “How does that go?”

“Well, first you whip” he said, showing her the motion.  “And then you… nevermind, it’s stupid.”

“Do people at least still waltz?”

“Uh…”

“Oh, I love this song!” she gasped suddenly, blessedly distracted from her disappointment by the driving beat of _‘Then He Kissed Me.’_  Such a sweetly innocent song, it wasn’t a surprise at all that she would like it.  Hell, he kinda like it too though he did  not like _‘I Got You Babe’_ but played it for her anyway.  Her smiles came so easily, her laughter so light and frothy, and gosh did he want more of it, more of all of it.  

It was not to be, though- after _California Dreamin’_ faded away and before he could find another song she brought the evening to an end.  

“You should go to bed, Jon.  It’s late.”

 _Was_ it late?  Didn’t feel that way.  He turned to glance at the clock- just a moment, really- but it was enough time for her to vanish with a * _poof*_ , leaving the apartment feeling surprisingly empty.  

She was right about it being late, though.  It was 2:30 in the morning and they’d been talking for six hours.

==========================

 _*poof*_  “You’re out of lightbulbs.”  Jon sucked air through his teeth and jumped about a foot in the air, eyes going adorably wide like they always did when she surprised him.  “Oh, sorry, did I startle you?”

“Little bit,” he admitted, taking a breath to gather himself.  “How can I be out of lightbulbs?  I _just bought_ lightbulbs.”

“I replaced all the ones that had burned out and now you have none. Not urgent, just thought you’d like to know.”    

He was wearing the red tie today- the one with the little blue checks- and it looked so much better now that she’d washed and pressed it though nothing could hide the way it bunched funny around his neck.  It looked like he’d knotted it too tightly and she couldn’t very well let it stay like that, so she undid and deftly retied it without really thinking.

“There, that’s better,” she told him, smoothing the tie back into place over his chest.  “Double Windsor looks more polished than your regular four-in-hand.”

Sansa proudly examined the improvement, oblivious to the way he was gaping at her in wide-eyed surprise.  After a moment he hesitantly lifted a hand, reached towards her face like he wanted to touch her but his fingers met no resistance whatsoever, just waved around in the air like she wasn’t there at all.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, horrified.

“Can I touch you?”

“You _can_ not and you _may_ not, so stop it.”

“But you can touch me?”

It was Sansa’s turn to gape in wide-eyed surprise.  

“If necessary, yes,” she admitted, turning and hurrying away before he could see her guilt.  “Don’t forget about those lightbulbs.”

It was true that she was allowed to touch him if necessary but… she wasn’t _supposed_ to touch him, and if the Elder Brother had seen that he would definitely not be pleased.  But she was already doing an awful _lot_ of things she wasn’t supposed to do so maybe no one would even notice this one little slip-up.  She’d just have to make sure not to do it again.

================

She didn’t hide near as much as she used to, which he appreciated more than he was willing to admit.  Sometimes he would hear her singing from another room, or find her dancing some old-timey dance in the kitchen, or sitting at the breakfast table waiting for him.  After a while she started sitting with him at dinner time, too, subtly frowning in disapproval at whatever meal he’d managed to prepare.    

It didn’t take long to realize that those quiet moments of the day were his favorite part, that all the rest was a bit of a bonus, and that he looked forward to seeing her everyday after work.  Still, it was a bit of a surprise to come home one night and find her busy in the kitchen.

“Hi, Jon!” she announced cheerily, then returned to stirring something in a pot, something that smelled incredible.  That wasn’t really the surprising part, though.  No, what _was_ surprising was what she was wearing- tight blue jeans, a frilly yellow apron tied around her tiny waist... and a grey t-shirt with _‘Direwolves National Champions 2011’_ across her chest.

“Is that my shirt?”

She stiffened.  “Ah… not exactly.”

“It _looks_ like my shirt.”

“I can’t wear your clothes, Jon, I’m a ghost.  I wear whatever I think up.”

“So you thought up my shirt?”

“I wanted to try something more modern and… I thought it looked cute on me.”  She shrugged when she said the last part, not meeting his eyes.  “I won’t wear it if it bothers you.”

“No, that’s okay, I was just… surprised.”  The concession earned him a bright smile, then she was shooing him out of the kitchen with the swat of a dish towel.

“Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.  Why don’t you go change and relax while I finish up?  Would you like some coffee?  Or a cocktail?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Jon changed in a daze, hanging his shirt and tie up, leaving his slacks over the back of his chair like she’d once instructed him to… god, it was confusing.  And worrying.  How did he wind up with this girl- this _ghost-_ who talked to him, took care of him, banged around in his kitchen wearing his shirt and dammit, she actually _did_ look cute in it.  It wasn’t a bad deal, really; he could get used to it.  And maybe ‘getting used to it’ was the part that had him so worried.

=================

The park below his window was perfectly green, with a wide wandering creek on one side and lots of paths bordered by multi-colored flowers.  It wasn’t the first time she’d stood and admired the view, but since she’d stopped hiding all the time it was the first time he’d joined her there.  

“Nice, isn’t it?” he said, stepping up beside her.

“Beautiful.”

“I always wanted an apartment with a view of Kingswood Park.”

She couldn't help but laugh, his words amusing her more than she could say.  

“And here you have it,” she said instead, because it really was a lovely thing to want and to have.  And it felt good to just stand there with him, drinking it all in, because it really was a beautiful view.  Romantic, almost… she could understand why he would want it.  She had wanted things, too, back when she was young.  Back before she died.  

“So,” he began, drawing her attention.  “Are you like... an angel?”

“I am.”

“Do you have wings?”

“No,” she laughed.

“Do you have a halo?”

Sansa glanced over at him to where he was watching her with a playful spark in his eyes.  Well... if he thought he was _teasing_ her then he was in for a pretty big surprise. Slowly she raised her hand, his gaze following as she lifted a finger and lightly tapped her halo, making it sing and come to life so he could see it, and for just a moment his eyes filled with something like child-like wonder.

Not for long, though.

“Wings would be better,” he smirked.

Sansa gasped in mock-indignation then nudged him with her shoulder though she wasn’t supposed to do that.  But when he tried to nudge her back he just went right through, stumbled past her and fell straight to the floor, landing with an inelegant _‘oof’_ that made her laugh.

“I _told you_ that you can’t touch me!”

“This makes no sense at all,” he muttered with a shake of his head then reached a hand towards her.  “Help me up?”

“No, only if necessary,” she reminded him; teased him.

Slowly, carefully, he gathered his legs beneath him and scrambled back to his feet while she pretended not to notice.  Instead she turned her attention to the park before her, now bathed in the lilac of twilight, leaves rustling just so while children laughed and played in the grass.

“It really is a beautiful view.”

“It is,” he agreed, but when she glanced over at him he was looking at her.

=================

 _*poof*_  “So I was thinking…”  

Her timing was terrible.  It was the weekend, and Jon had just showered in anticipation of going out for a night of darts with his friends, and his hands only just got into place to hide the part that needed hiding.

“Golly!” she shouted, _*poofing*_ out of view.  “Sorry!”

Jon grabbed his clothes and dressed as quickly and efficiently as possible.  Now that he knew what it felt like to have her around he could always tell when she was there or not, and something told him that she was out of sight but _not_ truly gone. Not that it mattered. He zipped up his jeans, took a deep breath, and picked up the thread of conversation.

“What were you thinking?”

 _*poof*_  “We should have a party!”

“What?”

“A party?” she cocked her head to the side, auburn ponytail swinging.  “You still call them parties, right?”

“No...  I mean yeah, we call them parties, but… what do you mean we should have a party.”

“Just that!  We should have a party!  I can decorate and make all the food, you can pour the drinks and pick out the music though you kids these days don’t even listen to real music, I swear it’s just noise…”

“But why would _I_ have a party?” he asked again.  Maybe people did this sort of thing on the regular back in her time, but bachelors these days didn’t really _have_ parties; if anything they just let people come over to drink beer and watch TV.

“Oh,” she sighed, deflating.  “Oh, I see.  Right.  This is _your_ apartment.”

“That’s not what I meant.”  

“You know, I live here too,” she protested, voice lifting.  “Well, not _live_ live, but I’m here.  And I help out.  You think the crumbs on the counter just magically disappear?  Or that the floor vacuums itself?”

“I know that you help out, I do, but…”

“Do you know how hard it is to put together a decent meal with the groceries you keep around this place?  No bologna.  No creamed soup.  No gelatin.  How’s a woman to make a proper terrine without gelatin?”

“God only knows.”

“I’m trying my hardest here, Jon.  Is it really so out-of-line to think maybe my wishes should count for something just once?”

“No, it’s not,” he conceded, not really unhappy about it but definitely confused- somehow this woman was starting to feel less like a ghost and more like a girlfriend.  And somehow, that didn’t even bother him.  “What kind of party?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks paperflowercrowns and sarahcakes613 for helping me plan the menu :-) mmmm good, lol

 

===================

“You want us to _what?”_

He had just told them about the kitschy, 1960s-themed dinner party he was having and was immediately met with a sea of confused faces.  Sam turned so quickly that his dart hit the wrong board.  It was almost exactly the reaction he’d expected.

Sansa was so adorably excited about this party that he actually started getting excited too… until she handed him the shopping list. And he’d _tried_ to tell her that people didn’t eat that stuff anymore, had gone so far as to claim that Jell-o had been banned by the government, but she saw right through him, hurt that he would lie to her. He felt so guilty he immediately agreed to every weird thing she asked for, plotting how he could possibly explain this to his friends.

“I don’t understand why you’re having a party in the first place,” Grenn said.

“Yeah, me neither.”

“What?”

“Nothing.  Just get a sport coat and be there by 7:30, will ya?”

“Yeah, alright.”

===================

Sansa spent all day getting ready, flitting around decorating and cooking and cleaning and (finally) starting to get dressed for the party. She had always adored the pretty pink cocktail dress her mother helped her make, loved how the color contrasted with the auburn in her hair and the blue in her eyes, and was happy for an excuse to wear it again. Judging by Jon’s reaction, she would say he was happy for it, too.

At long last the hour of the party arrived; the candles were lit, the napkins folded, the food laid out on the table and ready to go, and Sansa was proudly admiring her work when he walked up beside her.

“Wow, Sansa. This looks amazing.”

“You think so?” she asked, praying he’d assume she was blushing at the compliment and not at the breathless way he’d said her name.  

“Yeah, though I’m not sure we can eat all this.  Well, maybe Grenn could.  He eats everything.”  His eyes flicked over the food again.  “Fortunately.”

“Are your friends bringing their wives?” she asked, hoping for a yes but receiving only laughter.  “Why is that funny?”

“They don’t have wives.  Or girlfriends.  Hell, they barely have anything but me.”

“Oh.”

She should have said more, should have got him talking about his friends and his life, got him _thinking_ about his friends and his life, but the knock at the door meant that the party was about to get started; the conversation would have to wait.  

“Hi, Pyp!” Jon announced, calling each of his friends by name as they entered so that Sansa would know who was who.  “Hi Sam!  Hi Grenn!”

“Hi Jon,” the one named Pyp said.  “Why are you talking like that?”

“No reason.  Come on in, there’s food in the living room.”

His friends were smartly dressed in sport coats and ties-- she was pleased to see that men still dressed like that-- and happily followed Jon into the living room where they stared greedily at the food, impressed by the spread she’d managed to lay out for them.  Or at least, she _hoped_ that stunned silence was because they were impressed.

“You’re really taking this theme thing seriously, aren’t you?” Sam said, lip twitching into a smile as he plucked a tomato from the relish tree.  “How long did you work on this?”

“Me?  Not long at all, actually.”

“These meatballs are really good,” Grenn mumbled, stuffing his mouth full of the hors d'oeuvres in question.  “What’s the sauce?”

“It’s uh…” Jon stalled, subtly glancing over to Sansa for the answer.

“Grape jelly,” she said aloud; he winced in horror.

“What’s wrong?” Pyp asked.

“Nothing.  It’s grape jelly.”

“For real?”

“Apparently.  Can I interest anyone in a cocktail?”

The offer made her heart jump.  He didn’t _have_ to do that, she knew- this was _his_ world and he could do things however he wanted to.  But what he _wanted_ to do was to please her, and that thought was almost too much to bear.

In the end, though, it hadn’t mattered- his friends all looked at him oddly then asked for beer.

After drinks were passed out Jon cranked up his stereo, an act that only earned him more confused looks.  Because even though he was in charge of the music and could have picked anything he wanted, he chose to play songs she knew, music she recognized, lyrics from way back when she was alive and wishing some boy would dedicate those words to her. Such beautiful, familiar, lovely songs.  She could almost pretend he’d picked them all for her.   

The party proceeded quite well from there, with Jon refusing his guests’ request to turn on the TV and then politely asking them to stop cussing; they grudgingly complied.  And he was just so bright and happy with them, their combined laughter flooding the space so completely that it almost felt crowded in there, but watching him with his friends-- his good and loyal friends-- had filled her with an unexpected sorrow.  

It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to have them, only that she knew what a precious thing it was, to have friendships with people who loved and admired you.  She used to have friendships, too-- long, long ago-- and the reminder had her fleeing the party well before it was over.  

_I’m a terrible hostess.  And an even worse ghost._

She hid in his room till the last of the voices left and the door thumped shut on the evening; he found her only moments later, perched on the edge of his bed... crying.

“What’s wrong?”

She drew a shaky breath, let it all out.

“I just… miss it.  People.  Parties.  Talking.”  She swallowed hard.  “I miss living.”

Jon sighed, the weary sound of a man who didn’t quite know what to do; she could almost feel herself buckling under the weight of it.  After a long moment of not-quite-awkward silence he walked towards her, took a seat beside her on the bed and rested his hands on his knees.  

“I imagine that would be hard.”

She couldn’t help but smile.  The sheer naivete of his words was almost laughable though she supposed it was the only thing he could think to say, the best he could do.  And she was grateful for the effort.  It actually did make her feel better, to have him next to her; it soothed her almost as much as the [music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sFRP66HfZBo)drifting in from the living room.

 _♫  You are my special angel  ♫_  
_♫  Through eternity  ♫_  
_♫  I'll have my special angel  ♫  
♫  Here to watch over me  ♫_   

“I love this song,” she sighed, wiping her eyes.  “I don’t know this version, though.”

“It came out after…”  He paused, measured his words before finishing.  “...after 1967.”

_After I died._

That’s what he meant, he just wouldn’t say it.  He was trying to be careful of her, didn’t want to upset her with a mention of her life and her death.  It was sweet, really, and beautiful and _painful_ , because she had wanted someone just like him when she was living, had craved a man who would be careful of her… and here he was.

“I would ask you to dance, but…”

“You don’t seem like the type to dance.”

“I’m not,” he agreed softly.  “But I still would.”

_So careful._

Her heart was thumping so heavily in her chest she almost couldn’t breathe, not with the way they were whispering sweet nothings to each other in the dim lights of his room. Where his bed was _._ That they were sitting on. Together. Fifty years ago she would have been scandalized by her own behavior, too ashamed to notice how dizzy and swirly and silly she felt, tingling all over from him being so near. She wasn’t so scandalized now. He was warm; how did she feel to him? Could he feel her at all?  

“Well, that kitchen isn’t going to clean itself,” she huffed, standing and smoothing down the skirt of her beloved pink cocktail dress.

“Sansa…”

“It’ll only take a minute,” she cut him off, hurrying to the kitchen without looking back. When he called after her she pretended she didn’t hear him.

The apron got tied on with trembling hands then Sansa got straight to work, gathering up debris just like she did long ago, the first day she came here. She wasn’t supposed to do it then, and she definitely wasn’t supposed to do it now. The Elder Brother was going to be so mad when she finally went back, would tell her in no uncertain terms all the many ways she had failed, but… it was just so hard. She _knew_ assignments could be hard, had always known it, but no one ever told her they could be _this_ hard; never told her it could hurt like this.  

And it did hurt-- _badly--_ and the tears blurred her vision as they dripped unhindered into the sink while she scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. And later, when Jon walked into the kitchen, she hid from his view so he couldn’t see her crying.

Oh god, oh god, what was she supposed to do?  How was she supposed to proceed? The space between them had shrunk too small, there was no longer any room for all the words she needed to say; if she said them anyway, she’d be lost.  

_Perhaps I already am._

===================

Jon lay in bed, staring up towards the ceiling and replaying the night’s events.  All things considered Sansa’s party had gone remarkably well, but instead of being happy she’d only been reminded of her past.  Her life.  It hurt her, and he had hurt _for_ her.  And try as he might he had been utterly useless at consoling her.

He’d long ago come to the conclusion that he liked having her around- not her cooking or her cleaning or her (very pretty) face, but _her._  Sansa. He liked the sound of her voice and the stories she told and the dances she’d do when she thought he couldn’t see her. He liked the way she laughed and the way she smiled and the way she said his name, as if the word itself was something that required a little extra attention. He even liked the way her eyes would flicker with irritation whenever he did something… well, something _irritating._  She expected more of him, and he was surprised to find that he was happy to give it, glad to try just a little harder.  He may not be a perfect man-- not by a long shot-- but having her with him sure made him feel a whole lot closer to complete.  

And that was a problem. She would leave someday, maybe someday soon, and the realization had him anxiously protecting every minute they had.

“Sansa?”

 _*poof*_ “Jon.”

“How long will you be here?”

“Are you ready for me to leave?”

For just a moment he thought about couching his terms, teasing her for thinking he might miss her, letting her believe he didn’t care if she stayed; maybe it would be better that way. And yet he just couldn’t bring himself to lie about it.

“No. I’m not.”  

How could he ever pretend otherwise?  

Then again, how could he say what he wanted to say- that he was too used to the _feel_ of her, the way the air seemed fuller when she was around? How could he admit that he picked out tonight’s music like a love-sick idiot, crafting a playlist out of songs that made him think of her before he even realized he was doing it? How could he tell her he was crazy about her without making things more complicated than they already were? He couldn’t. Could he?

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” she asked, feeling a lot closer though in the pitch-blackness of his bedroom he couldn’t be certain.

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno,” he lied.  “Just can’t.”

“Would you like some warm milk?  A cordial?  Some coffee?”

“I can’t have coffee at this hour.  It’ll keep me up.”

“No it won’t!  Coffee is a soothing drink that helps you relax and sleep, everyone knows that.”

He bit back a laugh-- if people really used to think coffee was an appropriate bedtime beverage it was a wonder they got any sleep at all.  Or maybe that was what caused the baby boom.

“I don’t want coffee.  Thank you.”

She didn’t offer any more suggestions, just fell back into silence though he knew she was still there, could _feel_ she was still there.  And then she really _was_ there, emerging from the shadows to stand over him, ethereal and lovely in some satiny gown with bare shoulders and low neckline and lace around all the edges.  Above the thick auburn curls framing her face was the faint shimmer of her halo, and below that her eyes shone bigger and brighter than usual.  And though his room was completely dark there were no shadows across her face whatsoever.  Like she was lit from within; like an angel.

_My special angel._

“Close your eyes, Jon.”

He did, though he didn’t want to, forced his lids down reluctantly because obeying her had become so natural lately.  And there was that shift of air again and she was even closer, he _knew_ she was closer, could feel her breath on his cheek and her hair drifting down around him and her lips lightly brushing against his in the barest little whisper of a kiss that stopped his heart.  

“Don’t go,” he begged, panting and needy, though he shouldn’t have said anything at all.  The words just _slipped_ out though he meant them with every piece of him, felt them in his bones, heard them echoing around his head like a prayer _don’t go don’t go don’t go._  

Her second kiss followed quickly, longer and firmer than the first one, tongue moving against his just a little, just enough, to suck the breath right from his lungs in an unthinkably deep kiss that soothed him all the way to his soul.  Then the mattress dipped and she was beside him, her long body against his, and though he knew it wasn’t possible he turned towards her anyway, onto his side so he could get closer, could feel more of her, more of hair and her warmth and her softness and her sighs and only then did he realize her nightgown was gone.

“Sansa?”

Dainty hands tugged at his shirt, hesitant at first but increasingly insistent, clawing his clothes off of him till he was just as bare as she was though he kept his eyes screwed shut, afraid to break the spell.  Darkness didn’t stop him from enjoying her, though, exploring her skin with his fingers and his mouth while she arched and opened under his caress, sighing his name.   

_“Jon…”_

He’d wanted her for too long to be anything but eager, determined to appreciate every delicate detail of her body from the tips of her breasts to the bones in her hips, her navel and ear and neck and mouth, so many things to adore, too many things to hold onto.  Every sound she made told him what she liked and what she _really_ liked, and he listened with rapt attention till he was dizzy and achy and desperate for more.   

It wasn’t something they talked about, it seemed to just happen, when he pressed a kiss over her heart then took her hands, and took his place.  Surely he was dreaming her tiny gasp when he sunk between her legs, dreaming how unbelievably wet she was and how she moved with him, as simply as breathing, as essential as the air.  She came moments later with a shudder and a _pull,_ body tensing below him then practically melting, a contented smile in her kiss that dragged him over the edge along with her.

It was wholesome and good and affectionate and pure and everything everything everything he wanted.  He fell asleep with her head on his shoulder and her scent filling his senses, lemons and Pine-Sol and everything true and worthy in the world, praying to whatever God had sent her that he could always have this, now and forever, but when morning came she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa’s Kitschy 1960s-themed Party Playlist
> 
> My Special Angel- The Vogues  
> Can't Help Falling in Love With You- Elvis Presley  
> Unchained Melody- The Righteous Brothers  
> My Girl- The Temptations  
> When a Man Loves a Woman- Percy Sledge  
> In My Life- The Beatles  
> At Last- Etta James  
> When I Fall In Love- The Lettermen  
> Our Day Will Come- Ruby and the Romantics  
> Baby Now That I’ve Found You- The Foundations  
> 1, 2, 3- Len Barry  
> I Say a Little Prayer For You- Dionne Warwick  
> Happy Together- The Turtles  
> Baby, I’m Yours- Barbara Lewis  
> You Can’t Hurry Love- The Supremes  
> Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You- Frankie Valli  
> I’m Into Something Good- Herman’s Hermits  
> I Only Want to Be With You- Dusty Springfield  
> Something- The Beatles
> 
>    
> What’s on the menu:
> 
> Meatballs in grape jelly  
> Chicken livers wrapped in bacon  
> Cucumber sandwiches  
> Pigs in a blanket  
> Cheese and liver pate in the shape of a pineapple  
> Relish tree  
> Cucumber and tomato aspic  
> Broken Glass Cake


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to paperflowercrowns! 
> 
> And Happy Halloween to everyone else!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The kitchen was scrubbed, the floors were mopped, the windows with the beloved view of the park were polished till not even one speck of dust remained. It was the absolute best she could do, and she was more than happy to do it, but when it was done she found herself aimless. Being aimless was not ideal, because it meant her mind could wander to… things... and the guilt came crashing in, crushing her.

Worse was how everywhere she looked she saw signs of him.  No, not just of him.  Of _them._  There wasn’t a single bit of this apartment that hadn’t been touched by the two of them together, from the table she set every night with the food he provided to the cocktail shaker he’d brought home just because she asked him to.

_Home._

And that was the worst of it:  they’d made a home together.  It was true, even if it wasn’t real, and that thought had her back in the bathroom, staring into the mirror in which he’d first met her.  A sweet memory, really, but the girl looking back at her seemed so sad, melancholy where she used to be cheerful, eyes dull where they used to sparkle with remembered life.  Her hair was up in rag rollers... she didn’t know why she did that when she didn’t have to.  She supposed it was because her mother always did it that way- curled her hair up in rollers that came out right before father came home.  She always thought she would do the same.  Someday.

“You’re being unprofessional, young lady,” she lectured herself.  “You have a _job_ to do.  Best go do it.”

It would hurt him, she knew, but she couldn't stall any longer, had already delayed far more than she could reasonably justify; it was time to put this matter to rest.

===========

Jon paused on the landing outside his apartment and stared at the door, not quite ready to go in.  He was well and truly fucked; he _knew_ that.  He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her- about _wanting_ her- to the point that he couldn’t recall having a single other thought for the entire day.  She’d absolutely consumed him in the most unexpected way, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it... nor was there anything he _wanted_ to do about it.  He liked thinking about her, liked wanting her, liked living _around_ her even if he couldn’t truly live _with_ her.  

 _Totally fucked._     

But the apartment felt different when he walked inside- sort of empty, almost chilly; even the door shutting behind him sounded odd.  Something was wrong.

“Sansa?”

There was no answer, no sound at all, no singing or laughter, no familiar _*poof*_ … and the first hint of fear began churning in Jon’s stomach.   _Not yet,_ he begged, peeking in his bedroom, his bathroom, his closet.   _Not now,_ he ordered, going from the bedroom to the kitchen to the living room, back to the bedroom… she was there somewhere; she had to be.  He could _feel_ her though it didn’t feel the same.    

He’d almost forgotten how to breathe by the time he found her on his third trip around the apartment, arms wrapped tight around her tiny body and staring out the living room window to the park below.  

“Sansa?”

“Thanks for letting me play in your world, Jon,” she said dully.  “It was nice.”

“Was?” he echoed.  “Are you leaving?”

She didn’t respond, not right away, just stared out that window as if he hadn’t said anything at all while bile crept up his throat.  When at last she turned to face him she gave him a hard look.

“It’s time to go.”

There was so much _weight_ in her words, he couldn’t understand it.  He didn’t understand _any_ of this, not really, only that she couldn’t go- not now, not when he was so used to her, used to having her, having _this._  They had too much left they needed to _do_ together, too much they still needed to _say_ to each other.  So much he needed her to understand.

“Do you know… did they tell you… I died?”

She didn’t react at all.  Maybe she _did_ know.  Maybe every ghost got complete files about the people they were supposed to haunt and she knew all about him already.  And yet he found himself telling her anyway, needing her to know it the way _he_ knew it, needing her to hear it from _him._  About the night he died.

It was never supposed to be him- he’d never _asked_ for it- yet somehow he was left to command the small outpost until someone more qualified came along.  Sam and Grenn and Pyp were there- they were good men, loyal men, but he’d sent them away, because he needed to send _someone_ away and he figured he’d send the ones he could trust.  He’d thought it was a smart decision, to keep his enemies close.  In the end, it’s what got him killed.

“It was so stupid,” he concluded after he’d spilled it all.  “The worst mistake of my life, and even now I wish like hell that I could undo it.”  

“How did you come back?” she asked softly.

Jon blinked… thought… tried to remember... The last thing he could recall was the shock of cold metal sliding between his ribs then lots of searing pain.  Past that… nothing.

“Huh.  You know… I don’t really know.  It seems like I just… came back.”

If she thought that was odd she didn’t say as much, didn’t show it, just gave him that same hard look like she was waiting for something.  Something he wasn’t ready to give.

“When I died… I had a really hard time with it.  Oh, I know you think everyone would have a hard time with it, but the truth is some people have it harder than others.  I was one of those people.”

They were sitting on the sofa by then, side by side though he wasn’t sure how that had happened.  Their hands were laced together; he wasn’t sure how that had happened, either.

“I wasn’t supposed to die young, Jon.  I was supposed to have a family, a husband, a home.  I was supposed to have lots of parties and lots of friends.  But it was all taken away from me and I could _not_ let go.”

“Have you been here the entire time?”   

“No,” she laughed, a breathy little huff.  “But I was here a _long_ time.  My aunt came and got me, helped me to see, helped me move on.  She died young, too, so she knew what I had lost and what I was missing.”

For the first time she seemed much much older than her 22 years with the story she told- the way she told it, like there was more to it than just the words.  Like she knew something he hadn’t learned yet, though he was trying; he was _trying._

“Sometimes that’s what it takes- to find that person who understands, the one who’s willing to tell you when _it’s time to go_.  You know?”

There it was again- the lightness in her tone but a weight in her words that settled like stone in his chest and he knew, then, what she was telling him.

“You’re not here to haunt me.”

She shook her head.  “No.”

“You’re here to help me.”

“Yes.”

“Because I died.  And I _didn’t_ come back.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t confirm or deny.  It couldn’t be true; it _couldn’t_.  And he waited and waited and waited for her to tell him that yes of course he came back and everything was exactly as he always imagined it would be. But she never did.  

“I don’t understand.  How can I be dead when I have this entire life I’m living?”

“Do you?” she asked him, the challenge gently spoken but unmistakable.  “Tell me, Jon- when you leave here every morning, where do you go?”

“I go to work.”

“Which is?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Because the job itself doesn’t matter- _having_ a job was the important part to you, so you have a job.  I know these tricks, Jon, I used them myself.  You’re surrounding yourself with the things you were supposed to have.”  

Jon looked around his apartment... blinked... and for just a second saw it as the crummy slum he used to live in and not the amazing one-bedroom with a view of Kingswood Park.  

“My apartment...”  

“Just as you imagined it?”

It was, yes.  For as long as he could remember he’d dreamed of an apartment just like this one though he had no reason for it, didn’t even know what to _do_ with it.  Until she showed up.  

Had he dreamed her?  Had he conjured her up in the same way he’d conjured up the rest?  It wasn’t really anything he’d ever thought about, falling in love with _anyone_ much less a girl like her and yet... he _had._  He knew now that he had, and the more he thought about it the more corporeal she became, all her edges and colors sharpening and making her more alive.  

Ironic, since he was now more dead.  

“Was that the plan?  To make me fall for you?”

“What?” she gasped, a sharp inhale that made it perfectly clear that his accusation had never occurred to her.  “No, I… I was just supposed to make you aware,  get you thinking about the other side and maybe you’d recognize… if I had to talk then that’s fine but I… I wasn’t supposed to _stay_ here but…”  

“You miss living?”    

“I _do_ miss living,” she nodded; squeezed his hand.  “And you will too.  And I’m going to be in _so much trouble_ when we get back.”  

_When we get back..._

_It's time to go..._

“My friends… do they think I’m alive?

“No. They think you’re a ghost.”

“But… they could _see_ me. They couldn’t see you but they could see _me?”_

“Because they want to. And you want them to.”

“That’s all it takes?”

Sansa sighed- thought for a moment, measured her words.

“They feel like they failed you, like if they had been there then none of it would have happened. _They_ can’t let go just like _you_ can’t, so they keep you around like you’re still alive. But Jon… you’re _not_ alive. And _it’s time to go.”_

“Will they remember?  Seeing me.   _After.”_

The bowling, the darts, the lunches, the parties, the inside jokes and the good-natured teasing…  They needed to remember him; he _needed_ them to remember him.  He couldn’t bear the thought that the memories they created together after he died would disappear entirely.

“They’ll remember,” she told him, soothed him.  “They’ll just remember it differently.  Are you ready?”

The apartment was fading- _their_ apartment was fading- the vibrant warmth of the little home they’d built together swirling and dissipating around them but his eyes… his eyes stayed on her.  It would all be fine, with her.

“Yes,” he whispered.  “Let’s go.”


End file.
